


Million Dollar Man

by SeriouslyBella (BellaFuckingRockwell)



Series: 10 Songfics Challenge - House [4]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Greg House Being an Idiot, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Therapy, but everything is okay really, dark Wilson but not really, dub con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-13 19:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21002852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellaFuckingRockwell/pseuds/SeriouslyBella
Summary: Doing the 10 Fics/10 Songs challenge again, this time in the Houseverse. Playlist goes on shuffle and for the first ten songs that come up I write a short fic inspired by it.Fic 4: Lana del Rey - Million Dollar ManSummary: Wilson makes House go to therapy. House thinks it's a stupid idea.PLEASE NOTE: This fic really isnt what it seems to be in the beginning, but please heed the tags as the first few paragraphs could potentially trigger.





	Million Dollar Man

Wilson is the kind of man that every parent hopes their son will be or that their daughter will marry. As if being irritatingly good looking, fiercely intelligent and sweeter than cinnamon pancakes isn't already enough of a recipe for wet panties and pathological envy, he cures cancer for a living. 

Wilson could do much better than House. 

He tells him this sometimes. He might say it in those blatant, stinging words during an argument, or when he's stressed out. 

On other occasions, he's more subtle about it. Perhaps he'll mention that new doctor in the ER who's been giving him the eye, the much younger one with the Hollywood body and a sparky demeanour and a name like Brandon. Wilson could get a man like that. House couldn't. 

A few days after he brings him up, Wilson comes home late, quiet, and House knows exactly what's happened, but he doesn't ask questions. Better to pretend that nothing occurred than to endure ranting denials followed by days of arctic silence. And anyway, he could be wrong. Around 90% of flirting that happens is harmless and never leads anywhere (at least, if studies were conducted on such a thing, he'd guess at that figure). And no one wants a jealous boyfriend. So it's easier to just live with it.

Sometimes, when Wilson loses a patient, he goes out to drink. House waits up for him on the couch, watching wrestling reruns and taking double doses of Vicodin, until he hears a key stabbing at the door and a jaunty stumble from the hallway. He knows Wilson is upset, so he doesn't mind when he doesn't greet him before shoving his tongue into his mouth; quietly allows him to take him there on the couch, clinical and selfish and clumsy with alcohol. When Wilson doesn't want to cuddle afterwards, he brushes it off and goes to bed. Besides, he always apologises the next day. At some point. When he doesn't forget.

So it's not that bad, really. It's not like Wilson has ever hit him, though sometimes House wonders if that would be preferable to feeling as though he's disposable, as though Wilson is just keeping him around until something better comes up. Besides, there are times when Wilson is incredible, when Wilson cooks and House plays piano for him and they laugh and make love and everything is perfect. House doesn't want to lose that. He doesn't want to be alone.

It's interesting that someone so special, someone as brilliant as Wilson is just as screwed up as everyone else.

**

“I can see why all of this would be very difficult for you, Greg.” 

Dr Turner is around forty. She wears loud dresses and frumpy shoes. She also has the therapist pokerface down to an art. She's leaning towards him, chin resting on her hands, elbows bent on her crossed legs. 

“But as usual, I suspect that not a word of it is true.”

House sits across from her on the leather couch, rolling his gaze over her office; the glass cabinet holding books with predictable titles, the faux lillies in vases across the windowsill, the wooden desk with files and notebooks. A discarded cup of coffee on the table with a lipstick stain around the brim. 

“This couch is beige,” he says eventually, patting it to emphasise his point. “Didn't you get the memo? It's meant to be brown.”

Dr Turner cocks an eyebrow at him. She's a fan of silence. He's not sure if that's a therapy thing, or something she just does to make him uncomfortable.

But if it's the latter, it works, so he relents. Bounces his cane against the white rug before him as he says, “Of course it's not true. Wilson would never treat me like that. But if he's making me come here, I thought I'd at least give you something juicy.”

“I think you want to come here,” Dr Turner says, and House eyes her, trying to work out her intent. He wants her to be exasperated, but if she is, he can't read her. He hates that he can't read her. “What do you think?”

“I think I should tell you about my time serving in Vietnam.” He widens his eyes. “I've seen some far out things, man.”

Dr Turner's lips quiver, like she's trying not to smile. “That reference was all over the place.” 

She sits upright, glancing at the clock on the wall. Of course there's a clock on the wall, of course it's the expensive-looking, mini-grandfather type set out in oak. It's all so boring. 

“Anyway," she says. "I'm sorry to say we've run out of time. I want you to go away and figure out what you actually want to talk about. I hope we can get a little further in the next session.”

Balancing on his cane, House hoists himself upright, watching as Dr Turner swivels on her chair back to her desk. “You don't give up too easily, do you?”

“Not at two hundred dollars an hour,” she replies, not turning around.

He stares at the back of her head, noticing a few specks of grey in her brown hair, illuminated by the lamp on her desk. “Do you dye your hair yourself or do you go to a salon?”

She carries on logging into her computer. “Goodbye, Greg.”

As he exits the building, it's getting dark outside. Wilson will already be home, probably making dinner and fussing over the best way to ask him how things went today. House doesn't want to lie to him, but he doesn't really want Wilson to know he made him out to be a monster either. As he hoists himself up onto his bike, a quiet voice in his head asks him why he said all that. Just like Dr Turner probably will next week.

If he goes, that is. 

He smiles to himself. Fuck this. Therapy is for crybabies anyway.


End file.
